invincible summer
by fiesa
Summary: Sutcliff, Rosemary – The Eagle of the Ninth. Britain's winters are cold and wet. (But the fire in the hearth is warm.) TwoShot, movie-verse- after Marcus and Esca's return.
1. Winter

**invincible summer**

 _Summary: Sutcliff, Rosemary – The Eagle of the Ninth. Britain's winters are cold and wet. (But the fire in the hearth is warm.) TwoShot- after Marcus and Esca's return. (And because I missed Cottia in the movie.)_

 _Set: post-movie, going from there._

 _Warning: mixes book canon and movie canon in a curious way. I wanted an ending in which Cottia features, as well. Of course, the book's ending was perfect, but since Marcus in the movie does not even know her…_

 _Disclaimer: Standards apply. The last scene is based very closely on the book. No copyright infringement is intended: this certain scene is, to me, the perfect ending to the story and nothing I would not have wanted to write any different scene. The title, finally, is quoted from Albert Camus._

* * *

 ** _Part One (Winter)_**

Britannia's winters are cold and wet.

As opposed to their summers, which are wet but not too bad, relatively speaking. Marcus should be used to the climate by now, but he isn't. The landscape is grey and dreary and days when the sun is out and turns the soft hills into golden terraces are few, though not impossible. It is just… It is not his homeland, not the Spanish plain. In Etruria, even fall is hot, though not unbearably anymore, merely… comfortable. In comparison, Britannia seems a different world: the soft, lilting hills around Calleva Atrebatum, the open valleys. The wind that carries the scent of the sea. Summer can be beautiful, glorious and sunny and warm. And then fall sets in. Grey fog starts wafting up from the sea, covers the hills and the vales and turns everything grey. Just like that, summer dies and gives way to November. Uncle Aquila's gardens, lovingly tended and carefully kept, look like they are ill.

When he returns from North of the Wall, Marcus Flavius Aquila falls ill, as well.

* * *

It was to be expected, really.

The dangerous flight from the Seal People across the Highlands, the wound inflicted to his already weak knee. The cold water. Exhaustion, hunger, and then, the fight. Adrenaline and triumph have kept him upright, allowed him to return to the Forum on his own two legs. Walking past the stout, Roman columns, the eagle of the Ninth clutched to him, he didn't even feel his bad leg. The looks, the whispers – he couldn't have cared less about them. The only thing that mattered was that the eagle was safe – that Marcus family's honor was restored.

"What next?" Esca asked as they strode back: giddy, full of relief. _Strong_. Outside, the last summer sun was bathing the landscape in scarlet and gold. Esca, too, walked proudly now, his head held high. This wasn't the bitter slave anymore that had not asked for Marcus' pity but had accepted it because his honor required him to do so. This was a different man.

"You decide," Marcus said, laughing out loud. Because Esca was free, a free man, free to do what he pleased. And because Marcus was free, as well: free of doubts, free of fears. Free of the crippling uncertainty what had happened to his father. There had been a weight on his shoulders, the burden that were the decisions of his ancestors. But now he knew that his father fought to death, standing tall, and there was honor in that. The shame was gone, the honor restored. Esca and Marcus now were free men now, both of them, and they would be able to walk on by their own from thereon, without the shadow of slavery or dishonor on them.

* * *

Except that Marcus is not free to walk wherever his legs might take him.

How could he have forgotten? Suddenly, the only thing holding him upright is Esca's arm ( _once again?_ ) and the bone-chilling cold rolling through him makes him think back of the icy water of the rivers, the rain, nights spent shivering and hungry on hard forest ground. Esca feels Marcus' forehead and curses silently. His soft, lilting accent reminds Marcus of the guttural language the barbarians speak. A violent shiver runs through him and he cannot stop shaking anymore. His friend carries him home and puts him to bed, and Marcus does not get up for the next two months.

His wound is infected again.

His body has been weakened by the trials he lived through as a slave of the Seal People, the Painted Ones. The flight and the new injury did the rest. Now that he is back, that he is safe and all the tension has fallen from his shoulders, the illness reaches for him with unrelenting, unsympathetic claws, with a fever of the worst kind. It steals his breath, his peace and his rationality. Marcus feels too weak to even fight it. He cannot fight the nightmares, either, or perhaps they are mere fever delusions. He hears guttural voices chanting hymns, sees dark, painted limbs shaking spears. Moonlight reflects of white, crude clubs and scythes that look like they are made from human bones. The shaman grins at him from underneath his stag mask and antlers, and his red, bloody eyes are set in a gleaming white skull. Faceless Romans laugh at him – _Die! Die! –_ as he, unable to move, stands in the arena, the Barbarians' chariots with their silver-sharp blades fixed to the wheels' axes spinning closer and closer. Esca's eyes, cold and alien and merciless. _Kneel, slave._ The child's throat is slit, and it sinks under the waves almost peacefully. _This happens to those who betray their clans._ And the ground of the forest where the Ninth fought her last battle is soaked with blood. Marcus screams and screams and screams as rotten hands and stinking corpses try to drag him under the rolling forest floor–

He awakens sweat-soaked and tangled in his blankets, the echo of his scream raw and burning in his throat. And always, always, there is Esca by his side to hand him some watered wine, feed him some of Sassticca's broth and to exchange his wounds' dressings. If Marcus ever dreamed of taking the command of the newly formed Ninth Spanish Legion, he now knows it is impossible. He is a broken man, no matter how much he despises the fact.

Weeks pass, and the grey-and-golden fall of their return changes to winter. Cold winds dance around the villa. There is no reason to get up, no reason at all, so he just stays where he is and stares into the darkness, unseeing, unthinking. Marcus sleeps. It is not like he can do anything worthwhile, after all, crippled and broken as he is. He was so well, able to walk, ride and run, and now he is completely useless.

"You traveled behind the Wall," Esca argues. "You retrieved your Eagle. How can you say something like that?"

Marcus has no strength to argue back. It is as if, with his task fulfilled, he has no strength left for anything else. He despises himself for his weakness, but he cannot find the will to act on his derision.

Outside, the rain pelts the walls and windows, singing a song of darkness and emptiness.

"Do you really want to die?" His best friends' eyes burn into his. And yes, Esca is his best friend, they went through hell and back and the Briton has repaid Marcus for the life he saved over and over. Marcus is pretty sure it is the other way round, now: now he owes Esca a debt of honor. But even if honor is still more important to him than his own life he still has no strength left, nothing. "Do you just want to lie here and slip away until the only thing left is your empty shell?"

It is not like Marcus wants to die. He just cannot find a reason to live anymore.

"Leave him be," Uncle Aquila's voice says, faraway, strangely soothing. "It is the fever talking. He needs to…"

Esca storms from the room and slams the door, and Marcus chuckles to himself.

* * *

The fever that has plagued him for weeks finally abates enough to let him sleep without nightmares, although he still wakes up panting and sweat-drenched. It is the middle of winter, cold, dreary, unbearable December. In Etruria, Apollo rides his chariot across the sky every day, relentlessly. In Britannia, it seems like the Gods have forgotten their people. Without the fire in the hearth in his room, the cold would be unbearable.

It is strange, he thinks later, that he gets better while the gods pelt the Northern Islands with their worst whims. Maybe he is just too stubborn to simply fade away. Either way, he does not exactly feel better – but fever dissipates, and in the eyes of the Medicus, that means he will be better one day. Still, Marcus needs days until he is even able to sit up by himself. Sassticca, may the Gods bless the kind heart the kitchen servant hides behind her loud, snappy appearance, prepares strong soups and lightly-spiced meats and sweet cakes to restore his strength, but Marcus can barely keep the broth down. Marcipor, his uncle's slave, could carry him out of his room and have him sit in the brightly lit hall, but Marcus refuses. When Esca offers to shave him and hands him a mirror, he averts his eyes. He does not want to see his hollow complexion, the sickly shade he knows his skin must have. Still, he allows his friend to carefully scrape off the stubble that has formed over the past weeks, and does not forget to thank him. At the same time, the action makes him even bitterer, his own helplessness eating into him in a way that almost frightens him. He feels like half the man he was even when his leg was burning so much he had to clench his teeth to keep from screaming. Now, even getting up to relieve himself has him panting, and he leans on Esca so heavily he imagines his friends' bones break. Of course that is not the case, Esca is, for all his tall and lean stature, strong and sturdy, and Marcus lost a lot of weight during his illness. But still it pains him to be so dependent on someone else.

Even if this other person is staying by his side by his own will, not by Marcus' order.

One time, he tries to bring it up. "You shouldn't be here."

"Do you want me to leave?" Esca looks almost hurt, and Marcus refuses to imagine what he would do without him by his side.

"No." He has to gather all his strength to put together coherent thought and to make his tongue work the way he wants it to. "But you are free."

"I am free to serve whom I chose," Esca says, matter-of-fact, but Marcus can see the pain in his eyes. This is where they have come to, he thinks.

And he is glad that Esca will not leave, but he knows it is selfish. He is being selfish.

Esca is his best friend and his worst fear, and the thought kills him.

* * *

Uncle Aquila's face is reddened from the cold winds and he smells like snow when he knocks on the door to Marcus' quarters sometime in Ianuarius. In his arms, he carries a bundle.

"What is it?" Marcus asks when he can no longer ignore the man standing in his rooms, the oil lamps throwing contrasting shadows across his kind face with its silver beard, without saying a word. The bundle is now shifting, making yipping noises.

Carefully, Uncle Aquila sets down the bundle and unwraps the blanket. A puppy wolfhound stumbles out of the nest and sits down on his hind legs, confused and curious and terrified in equal parts. His snout twitches back and forth as he tries to take in the entire room at once.

"A hound?" Something in Marcus stirs with interest, something he thought he had forgotten. He thinks he can relate: fear and happiness in equal parts.

"It's a female," Uncle Aquila says, finally slipping out of the warm tunica and handing it to Stephanos, who has appeared behind his master, unheard as usual. "I bought it from the blacksmith. It was the weakest of the entire litter, but it survived the first weeks. Esca said it was born for you."

The wolfhound puppy stumbles forward, fighting to get all four paws under its stubby body, and Marcus realizes why the blacksmith agreed to sell one of his precious hounds: the cub is limping. Its left hind paw is crooked, curiously deformed.

Marcus throws his head back and laughs.

Uncle Aquila waits until his laughter turns into coughs, and then until he has, painstakingly slowly, grabbed the goblet of wine and taken a gulp. "So it is decided."

Marcus does not answer.

He wonders where Esca is.

Uncle Aquila leaves the room without a further comment and Marcus continues to stare at the puppy that has now dropped onto its belly again and has started to gnaw at the corner of the blanket that is dangling from the bed. It is close enough for Marcus to touch it. In a whim, he lifts the puppy up and places it on top of the blanket. It answers with a whine, but it is not a sound of fear. Dark eyes stare up at him, curious. The hound's slight weight on his good knee is strangely…

Strangely comforting.

"So we were born for each other, hm?" Marcus is aware that he is talking to a dog – a puppy, even – but he does not really care. "What is your take on this?"

In answer, the puppy inches forward and nudges his hand with its cold, wet snout. Its whining becomes more demanding. It licks his fingers: the red tongue is warm and wet. The pup trusts him, and the realization stirs something in him.

"I guess you're hungry." Marcus sighs. "Well, let's see what to do about that."

Esca appears, magically, as if he has only waited for Marcus to decide on what Marcus knows he never had a take of his own on, either way.

* * *

Three weeks later, and the snow is still howling around the house. Britain's winters are long and dreary. Inside the halls, warmed by a roaring fire in the hearth and lit by half a dozen oil lamps, Uncle Aquila and Stephanos are playing a game of checkers. Esca is sitting in a corner, his hands working on something made of soft leather. And Marcus, still weak and easily tired but out of his own quarters for the first time in what feels like eternity, is trying to keep his balance on two feet and a cane while Wolf chases her own tail around his feet.

"You can't call her Wolf for the rest of her life," Esca says, but he sounds like he knows he already has lost that particular argument.

"She likes her name," Marcus insists. "Right, Wolf?"

Wolf yipps, and pounces her own waggling tail with all the enthusiasm of a puppy.

* * *

It was a deliberate plot.

Marcus can see it clearly now, and he oscillates between anger and desperate relief. He could have withered away in his room for the rest of his time, or he could be forced to come outside. Not everything would have worked, Esca's increasingly desperate and angry pleas to do so for the sake of himself had not incited any sentiment in Marcus' dark, empty chest. But returning to the world of the living for someone else, someone who needed him, someone who relied on him – that was different. Uncle Aquila gave Wolf to him. Wolf was a pup, rapidly growing but innocent and ignorant of the world around her, so he had to take care of her needs. She needed to be fed and to be trained, because an untrained wolfhound was a danger for its environment. Marcus had seen hunters cut off a hound's head because the animal had fallen into the blood haze. It was easy to cut himself off the people who cared for him because they did not need him to care for them. It was not possible to deny an innocent being that would die otherwise.

* * *

It takes his mind off the past for the first time since he and Esca have returned, forces him to focus on something else. Something else than the pain in his leg, the emptiness of his future and the grey, cloudy sky in front of his window. It is obvious, and manipulative, and he tells Esca so. But his friend merely shrugs.

"I don't care, as long as it works."

Marcus has no answer to this, although there are many things he wants to say. There is a rock of the size of the colosseum in his throat because he needs to say it so badly, but at the same time, he cannot. _Thank you,_ for instance, _for staying with me. For not abandoning me. For sticking with me when I am miserable and in pain. Thank you for being there for me when I need someone, and especially when I am irritable and grumpy and insufferable._ There are so many things Marcus would like to say to Esca, things that hover between them and pile up into hills, and mountains, and mountain ranges. Things he will not ever be able to say, he knows this. At the same time, he knows Esca knows, too. There is nothing he would not give Esca if his friend asked for it, but the Brigand simply smiles softly and puts his hand on Marcus shoulder. It lays there, feather-soft and warm and familiar, and no words are exchanged. They don't need to say out things loud to understand each other, nowadays.

Wolf growls pathetically girly and tries to wrestle away the strip of leather she and Marcus are playing with, and Marcus feels a smile stretch over his face. It is small, but it is a smile.

It is something.

* * *

When it stops snowing, the gardens are white and endless in the colorless breath of winter. The small fountain in the middle of the garden is not even visible underneath the piles of snow on ice. But there is a little bench on the far side of the gardens, sheltered artificially by a small, half-open pavilion, and the walk there is just long enough for Marcus to make it by himself. The path is still exhausting, even though he walks very, very slowly and uses a cane to support his bad knee, and the proof how much he has lost over the past months threatens to throw him back into the grey, suffocating silence. But Wolf dances around him, yipping and whining, and he can almost feel Esca's watchful gaze in his back from where his friend stands in the door, half-hidden by shadows, ready to come to his aid whenever he might need it. Maybe it is exactly because of this that Marcus clenches his jaw and continues on until he can drop onto the bench with a huff of relief. He brushes his hair from his eyes and tugs at his warm coat until he is comfortable. Wolf dances around him, her energy barely restrained but already far more obedient than before. Her training is coming along but she still is a young pup with endless energy and an even larger heart to love her master. Her dark eyes are full of trust – and laughter, Marcus could swear – as she puts her snout on his bad knee almost carefully. He takes his time to pet her ears and then throws the knotted strip of leather Esca made from the scraps he did not use for her collar. With a bark of enthusiasm, Wolf storms off like the lanky, grey wolfhound puppy she is. Her crippling hind paw makes her gait wobbly, but she is working around it admirably. It does not seem to hinder her too much, which is a blessing, really.

The silence of this snowy world is intriguing, despite his disdain for the cold.

Marcus is wearing a scarf and a woolen coat and the cold still manages to creep under it. But on those long winter afternoons, he stays in the garden until he can barely move from the cold and Esca comes to help him back. His uncle sometimes expresses his worry for his health, but Marcus is pretty sure being outside is better than hiding in his room again. He still does not like the grey, but his head is clear outside. Maybe it is something in the air, the purity and crystallinity of the frozen world around him. Maybe it is a foreshadowing sensation, the distant feeling that something is about to happen. Marcus does not know what he is waiting for, but for the moment, it does not matter. While the winds warm, almost imperceptly, day after day, he watches Wolf wrestle against her own shadow, shaking the leather strip back and forth, tossing it by accident and storming after it, barking happily. Esca still does not accompany him on these small outings; maybe he feels that Marcus needs some time for himself. Maybe he dislikes the cold as much as Marcus does – but no, that's not possible. He is a Brigand, after all, used to the cold Highland climate. Esca always knows what Marcus feels: he is waiting in the hall whenever they return, and slowly, slowly, Marcus does not feel like he cannot look at his best friend anymore. They were close once and distant, but their circumstances were different. Now they are equals, and Marcus starts to learn to laugh with Esca not as an ally, but as a friend. It is… good. Wolf brings back her wet, sticky leather strip and Marcus smiles and greets her by patting her head. He whirls around the leather strip, fakes a throw once, twice, laughs at Wolf's hasty starts and returns when she realizes he has not thrown her quarry, and then he lets go of the leather. Wolf follows on three paws and one crooked one, and she does so quick and enthusiastic. Markus smiles, and thinks that maybe, maybe–

And then he realizes that the odd feeling of not being alone that day is not only a feeling, but that he indeed is being watched. To the left of the bench he is sitting on, in a small gap between the now-grey and drab bushes that form the back of the pavilion, a girl is standing.

* * *

Marcus never had much experience with girls. Perhaps, had he chosen to be a politician instead of a soldier, it might have been different. But Marcus has no examples to judge neither her age nor her appearance. She might be in her late teens, but she seems both old and young to him as she stands there, wrapped in a warm coat, the hood drawn over her head. What he can see of her face is sharp and pointed. Beautiful? He cannot say. Too sharp, too expressive. Not like the tall, lean women he encountered at the Seal People's tribe, not the small, round women he knows from visits to the Forum. Her hair is hidden by the cloak but a long, thick braid falls down next to her throat: it is of a fiery, burning red.

Marcus wants to ask her two things: first, how long have you been standing there? Because he should have heard her steps, should have felt her presence. He is a soldier, and months spent North of the Wall have honed his already sharp senses. Yet still, the snow has muffled her approach and he has not felt her approaching. It is embarrassing, but also intriguing. And second, who are you? He has never seen her before, never once heard his uncle talk about her. Stephanos is the one who brings the gossip to Uncle Aquila's home; had he known about a girl with fire-red hair, Marcus is sure, he would have told them.

He asks neither one of his questions. He just answers her gaze, long and full of equal parts suspicion and wariness, and then she turns around and disappears again in the neighboring garden, as silently as she has come.

Like a fox, he thinks. Like a young, wary vixen.

So this is where, in a corner of the grey, drab gardens of his uncle's house, Marcus and Cottia meet for the first time.

* * *

That evening, he asks Uncle Aquila about their neighbors.

His uncle is surprised. In the months that passed since Esca and Marcus returned with the eagle, Marcus has shown no inclination whatsoever to get to know their neighbor and his family. Also, in the time before he and Esca began their journey behind the Wall, he had preferred his solitude. The old Roman obviously considers it as a good sign that his nephew, apparently, is starting to take notice in the world around him again. Marcus cannot help but roll his eyes: it is just a question, and a polite one, too.

"So it is just Kaeso and his wife Valeria?"

"Yes, and their servants, of course. They are acquainted with some of the men from the Forum. Sometimes, their lamps burn until late into the night when they dine together."

"Do they have children?"

"Not to my knowledge, no." And Aquila frowns. "Is there a reason for your sudden interest in our next-door neighbors?"

Marcus pretends to scratch Wolf's ears to win some time. She is tired from their daily games and happily snoring at his feet. Her ears twitch as she hunts game in her dreams.

"No particular reason." From the corner of his eyes, he can see Esca grin. He shoots his friend a challenging look, daring him to say something. "I just wondered."

"We could invite them for dinner, if you want to get to know them."

"That will not be necessary."

Uncle Aquila shrugs and returns to his reading, and Marcus busies his hands with sharpening his dagger. The silence in the room is comfortable, only broken by the rustling of parchment, the sound of bursting wood from the hearth and Marcus' grindstone.

"Does my Master wish for another drink?" Marcus does not know how long Stephanos has been a free man by now. But the old Greek scholar refuses to abandon his chores, still hovers in the background like a shadow. Marcus, sometimes, is unpleasantly reminded at how Esca used to disappear while standing in the same room as him, unmoving, and shudders in memory. He does not want his friend to ever again be like that. And though Esca, too, refuses to leave, he and Stephanos are very different.

Uncle Aquila smiles. "No, thank you, Stephanos." Then, his gaze sharpens. "But here we have the right man to ask questions about our neighborhood, Marcus, do we not? Stephanos, old friend, have you heard something about a young lady staying with Kaeso right now?"

Proud, Stephanos squares his shoulder. "Yes, Master. The people say Kaeso' niece is staying with him this winter. She lost her parents and has come to live with her mother's sister."

"That's quite some detailed information," Uncle Aquila remarks. "How come we have not seen her until now?"

"It seems she is does not like to be among crowds, Master Aquila."

Uncle Aquila humms thoughtfully. "Well, with the weather, Britain is not the nicest place to stay right now. I am sure she will enjoy the spring to come."

Marcus does not say anything and, secretly, thinks that a girl with eyes like a hawk and a face and hair like a vixen surely cannot be merely shy. More like shy and stubborn at the same time, perhaps?

Wolf awakens with a start, sneezes, jumps to her feet and starts nagging Marcus for a treat, and he laughs and reaches for a piece of dried meat.

* * *

Like with wild animals, he needs patience.

He sees her more often now that he knows what to watch out for. Maybe she comes there more often, too, now that she knows he knows she is there and does not object to her presence. She just stands there, still as a statue, and watches. Once he caught her glance – her eyes are green as grass – but she averts them, quickly. She does not speak, and Marcus does not ask. She always disappears before he leaves again, and sometimes she is even waiting for them when they come outside. Like a wild animal, she watches, ready to bolt, and Marcus watches her, in return, from the corner of his eyes.

The first time she moves away from her hiding space near the wall, Wolf is chasing Esca around the fountain, and Marcus thinks that maybe she is afraid of the hound. Wolf is large by now, and grey-white-black. Beautiful. Her crippled hind paw does not hinder her. Only when the sky turns black and rains threaten; she whimpers in her sleep, and Marcus thinks that the two of them share the same pain.

But the fox girl has no eyes for him. She must have moved because she could not see Wolf any longer, and as soon as she has found her her eyes remain on the hound, fascinated. Belatedly, Marcus realizes that Wolf must have known about the girl for a long time, would she not pick up her scent? On the other hand, Wolf is young and enthusiastic, so maybe the snow threw her off.

Marcus does not know what to think.

But this time, when the girl moves forward and then stills and waits, he watches her. The sun has been showing her face tentatively these days and the snow storms have stopped. Sun rays make the world a labyrinth of cracks, edges and crystal, and Marcus thinks that maybe, maybe he can see why Uncle Aquila loves this country. The fox girl watches, still as a statue, as Wolf places her paws on Esca's shoulders and he goes down, playfully, they wrestle for a while and then she jumps up and shakes herself and trots over to where Marcus is sitting. Only she does not grace him with her usual cool nose and excited whimpers. She walks straight towards the girl, instead, and prods her with her snout. Marcus expects the fox girl to scream and bolt, but she just stands there. And then she lifts her hands, deliberately slowly, allows Wolf to sniff her, and, when the hound just huffs, places them over her ears carefully to scratch them.

The wolfhound sneezes happily and starts licking the girl's hands.

It is the first time Marcus sees anything more than the green-eyed stare from the fox girl. The smile is small, but it lights up her face. This is the way a young girl should look, he thinks, not like the wary, fox-faced girl that has been watching them for a while now.

It does not take much time and she is playing with Wolf whenever Esca accompanies them to the gardens, but she never once speaks with Marcus.

* * *

Winter in Britannia lasts so long Marcus sometimes felt it would never end.

It was hard, on days, when the cold seeped into his bones like poison and his knee ached with the memory of two old, difficult wounds. Sometimes, the pain paralyzed him to a point that he could not walk and had to stay inside the house. He was irritable and grumpy then, and, knowing it, tried to talk to nobody rather than risking offending them. Esca and Wolf seemed to sense his emotions, but sometimes they still got on his bad side. Sometimes he suspected them to be doing it on purpose, to forcefully throw him out of his moods.

He felt so homesick he wished to die.

The thawing began eventually, however, and the sun gained strength. Now it was not only the silvery world of ice and sun, but slowly, the colors returned. It started with spring flowers in the garden, and tiny buds of yellow and pink on the bushes. The snow slush melted away. One morning, Marcus awoke to the sound of song birds in the gardens. He laid completely still, as to not miss any sound: the house was full of them and alive. The creaking of wood. Stephanos' steps on marble floors as he carried Uncle Aquila's breakfast up to the study. The faint whistling of a farmer and the creaking of his cart as he made his way down the road, towards the Forum. Wolf's breathing from where she laid on the rug next to his bed. And, there, again: the sound of birds greeting spring.

Marcus leaned back and felt his lips twitch into a tiny smile.

* * *

"What is your name?"

He knows she is fifteen summers and hails from a tribe of Britannica's best horse breeders, that her father died and her mother re-married and had no space for her anymore. He knows that she lives with her aunt and uncle, and that she always escapes her governess. She can read and write and is surprisingly well-versed when it comes to history and geography, but she thinks politics are silly. Marcus knows all this about the fox girl, but he does not know her name.

He knows, however, that the girl talks to Wolf with the same voice she talks to other people – no pretense, no babyish speak, no belittling – because he spends afternoons on end watching her and Wolf. He listens to the fox-girl talk to his wolfhound: telling her to pick up this, to let go of that. Telling her about how annoying Narcissa is, and that she much prefers to study on her own – and interesting topics, mind you, not needle work and weaving and stuff! – than to be instructed by teachers. She hates anything Roman: the stiff rules, the elaborate traditions, the stuffy, crowded streets. The way her aunt and uncle pretend to be Roman but she still feels like an Icenian girl and never wants to forget her heritage. Her voice is quiet as she talks in the language of her mothers's, but Marcus can understand her well. She probably does not know he does, otherwise she would not talk so freely. She talks to Wolf as if the hound is another human being. It is intriguing to watch, but it also becomes progressively annoying. Because Marcus still does not know her name.

He could ask Stephanos, but, for some reason, he wants to hear fox-girl tell her himself.

When he asks her it is spring; glorious, beautiful spring. The sun reflects in the bubbling water of the busy fountain in the garden. All around them, the air is alive with scents, colors and sounds. Esca is sitting on the stairs down from the villa, his hands busy with feathering new arrows, and seldom looks up. But Marcus caught his glance before and he knows his friend is carefully watching over them. It is his way of giving them privacy without abandoning his self-chosen task, and although Marcus tried to tell him he was welcome to join him on the bench, or could leave as he pleased, Esca stubbornly remains. But the girl – he has barely exchanged four words with her. When Marcus asks her for her name she freezes, her shoulders immediately pulling up and then relaxing again. The instinctive reaction makes him smile: she has obviously been drilled on how to move and react like a lady, but she still is young enough to have to consciously remember this first.

But then she rises from her crouch and stands, her chin up and her face regal, and when she turns, for the first time, she looks at Marcus straight on. The green of her eyes in her sharp face is striking.

"My name is Cottia," she says. And then adds, as if an afterthought: "You are Marcus Flavius Aquila. The one who brought back the eagle of the lost ninth legion." And, when she sees the surprise in his eyes: "Everyone knows about you."

He smiles at the sound of her voice in which disdain mixes with guardedness.

"I was not aware of this."

Cottia squints, as if trying to read the lie in his eyes. After some moments of silence, she accepts it as the truth.

"You speak my language."

He inclines his head in answer. He would have expected her to be embarrassed, but Cottia only nods.

"My aunt and uncle want me to be a true Roman woman, so they only speak Latin with me. They even call me Camilla. I hate the name, but I pretend for them."

"I think Cottia is a beautiful name."

Her sharp, white teeth shine in her face when she smiles. Her fiery red hair dances, wildly.

Wolf comes up and buries her snout in Marcus' side, and he pats her, lovingly, cards his hands through her thick fur and feels her flanks rise and fall. She pushes towards him as if trying to meld into him. Her unconditional trust surprises him every time. He cannot think of anything that has made him deserve her, and yet Wolf loves him.

"How is it like, behind the Wall?"

Cottia's voice draws him out of his reverie. When he looks at her, she is staring straight at him, her green eyes boring into his. For a second, Marcus thinks–

He shakes himself back to reality and clears his throat. "Did you come here for stories?"

She shrugs, wordlessly.

Marcus gives a short bark of laughter. "Why not? Come on – you might as well sit."

She sits on the other side of the bench, burying her small hands in Wolf's thick fur.

"Wait a second." He takes off his soldier's coat – thick, woolen and well-worn – and places it around her shoulders.

Her eyes are questioning. "Will you not be cold?"

"I have two coats," he says, pointing at his cloak. Cottia nods, satisfied. "What do you want to know?"

She shrugs.

"Well." Marcus shrugs, as well, and starts at the beginning.

* * *

Spring is not the time for hunting trips, so Esca and Marcus do not hunt.

But they ride through the forests that are beginning to come back to life earnestly and with all the wild abandon of nature that has only so much time until the season ends. Marcus feels the warmth of his big black horse underneath him, the leather of the reigns, the wind whipping in his face and tearing at his hair. He smells the scent of the forest; re-awakening; coming back to life. The green landscape and the blue sky are beautiful, elevating, and Marcus slowly starts to forget the cold of winter. Wolf accompanies them, and together they live.

Marcus suspects that Esca feels most at home in the forest, but Esca shakes his head.

"I feel free here, but I am a free man now. I know I can come and go as I please. I chose to remain by your side."

"Esca…"

Marcus wants to say how much it means to him, this friendship of theirs. The trust they have, built upon their dangerous adventures and the exhausting flight from the Seal People, have brought them together and forged a connection between them. Marcus cannot count how often he has turned to find Esca right there, with him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. In contrast, he knows that Esca also relies on him: what they have is not a simple relationship. There are no words to describe what it means to him.

Esca smiles, as if he is able to read the thoughts going through Marcus' head, and clasps his wrist in Roman fashion.

"You are my friend and brother, Marcus. I am here by choice."

 _Brother mine._ It sounds so trivial, and still he cannot say it out loud in fear it might lose its meaning.

He clasps Esca's hand, strongly, and matches his friend's smile.

His black horse throws his head back and snorts, loudly, and Esca's mare picks up on the challenge and neighs.

"Race you to the outskirts?" Esca calls and startles a laugh out of Marcus. It feels… It feels _good_.

Instead of an answer, he guides his mount forward.

When they return home and Marcus walks down the steps to the garden, Cottia's fox-red hair shines like fire in the warm spring sun from where she sits on the bench.

And Marcus thinks that maybe, _maybe_ , despite everything, he is glad he came to Britannia.

* * *

Marcus never had siblings, but if he had them, he imagines, they would have been like the fox girl.

Cottia is fierce, and intelligent, and fiercely intelligent. After becoming friends with Wolf and Marcus it is only a matter of time until she befriends Esca, as well, and it is a match made in heaven. They are both Britannia's natives. Their languages differ slightly – Esca has a thick, lilting accent while Cottia's native tongue sounds like a song – but Marcus recognizes the similarities. The way their tongues shape around certain vowels is similar. Esca tells Cottia about his clan, and about their culture and traditions. Cottia retaliates in kind, though Esca knows more about the Icenians than Cottia about the Brigands. Sometimes, Marcus just listens as they exchange stories, to Cottia's clear, high voice and Esca's familiar tenor, sees the spring sun dance in Wolf's pelt, on Cottia's fox-fire hair and on Esca's tanned arms. Watches them bend their heads together over Wolf: red and golden. Fire and sun. Esca's laugh always sounds startled, like he does not mean to show amusement and is constantly surprised at the fact that he still is able to laugh, despite everything. Cottia's is crystal and clear, the sound of the bells rung by the priestesses of Vesta before the ceremonial sacrifice. Marcus feels Wolf's cool snout as she pushes it into his hand, a gesture of trust, and he feels…

 _Home._

Cottia never tires of his stories, either, neither the ones of his stint as cohort centurio in Isca Dumnoniorum nor of Esca's and his adventures in the Highlands, on their search for the eagle of the Ninth Spanish Legion. The months they spent searching the hills and vales come back to life when Marcus tells her about dark forests and foggy coast lines, about caves and hills and ruins of what once were proper forts. Sometimes Esca tells the stories, as well, and Marcus enjoys listening as much as he enjoys reviving their search for Cottia.

The sun is low on a spring afternoon. A cool wind has been going the entire day, and once again Marcus has offered Cottia his thick soldier coat for warmth. When he finishes the story – having told it in turns with Esca – for the third time since he knows her, the fox girl is quiet.

For a while, they just sit there. Esca, whose hands seldom are idle, is twisting stems of green grass between his fingers, forming a tiny wreath.

"What did you get as rewards?" Cottia asks, her brow furrowed.

Marcus throws her a surprised glance. "Reward?" He echoes. "What do you mean?"

"You retrieved the eagle of a lost legion from the Seal People," Cottia says, as if it was the simplest thing she could think of. "You restored honor to Rome. The emperor ought to reward you, should he not?"

Marcus and Esca exchange glances. Esca looks pensive. Marcus feels like laughing out loud.

"The Emperor? No, he is far too busy ruling his empire. The senate makes all the important decisions for him."

Cottia looks like she does not appreciate the reminder. "So what has the senate rewarded you for your services?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" She echoes, disbelieving. "You risked your lives and they give you nothing instead?" Cottia turns to Esca. "You were a slave. You do not owe the Roman Empire anything!"

Esca looked like he was both amused and bitter at the same time. "I did not do it for Rome."

"Neither did I," Marcus said when she whirled to look at him. "I did it for myself."

"And I was given my freedom," Esca adds. "That is reward enough for me."

Marcus knows the glance Cottia gives them. However, she does not ask any further.

"Tell me about your home," she demands, instead.

Marcus swallows the wave of homesickness that crashes over him and does her bidding.

* * *

Marcus had long ago given up on feeling guilty for depending on his uncle for a place to stay and his daily bread. They had the discussion once:

"I cannot forever weight on your pockets, Uncle."

"Well, I guess that silly sister of mine should have a place for you, if you wanted to stay with her. Do you want to return to your family?"

Marcus had shuddered at the thought of his mother's second husband. Uncle Aquila, correctly, had taken it as a no.

"In that case, you are very welcome to stay with me," he had said. "I am not getting younger, but having you around certainly delays growing older. I do not have children of my own. Having you, Esca and Wolf around never leaves me a minute of boredom, which I appreciate."

Marcus would have gladly offered his uncle money for his stay. But as he had been discharged from the army early, he had no own income. He tried to return the favor however he could. Even if it only was keeping track of his uncle's quill and parchment when he dropped it in the atrium and could not find it in his study.

* * *

Summer mornings are beautiful.

Marcus loves them because they are warm and like golden honey, pass slowly and yet meaningful. The air is full of scents: Sassticca's honey cakes; the oil Marcipor uses to clean Uncle Aquila's sword; ink and sandstone. Esca is reading a scroll, right next to him. Marcus was reading, too, but at one point he lost his concentration. The world outside is beautiful. Different than the yellow-green valleys of Etruria, his Etruscan home. Different, yes – but beautiful.

"Wait! You cannot-"

Suddenly, Marcipor's voice cuts through the morning air, raised in both anger and annoyance.

Next, a girl's voice, one Marcus would recognize everywhere, talking fast and breathless. Marcipor's rumbling voice a second time, as strict as the first time, and then –

A yell, deep and baritone and both pained and angry. "Great Godfather! She kicked me!"

Marcus and Esca exchange matching frowns and turn to look at the door.

The next thing they hear is the slapping of soft leather sandals against marble stone floors, and then Cottia flies into the room, breathless, her hair trailing out behind her like a red flame.

"Marcus! Do not let them take me!"

Confused, Marcus stands and looks at the fox girl. Her cheeks are flushed and there is a tell-tale sheen in her eyes that whispers of tears, but she does not cry. Her head is high. She has the bearings of a priestess, or, perhaps, a queen.

"What is it, Cottia?" He asks, carefully, and feels Esca come to stand at his right hand side.

Cottia's eyes blaze in anger. "My aunt does not feel Roman enough this summer, so she is going to Aquae Sulis. She wants to move the entire household!"

A pang in his chest: regret. He has gotten used to this fox girl. When has he gotten used to her? He throws Esca a short look and can see the same regret dancing in his friend's eyes.

"Cottia," Marcus says. "If your aunt and uncle leave, you have to go with them. You cannot stay here by yourself."

"But I hate Aquae Sulis!" She spits, sharp and dangerous, like the vixen he always thought she was. "I hate those horrible pretenders, rich and fat, behaving like they think Romans behave, eating and gossiping the entire day! Dressing like Romans, talking like Romans, living like Romans – I am sick of this act!"

"You cannot stay here, Cottia." There is regret in his voice, and pity, and it is the second more than the first, he knows quite well, that makes her glare at him the way she does now. "You are too young to live by yourself, and either way, unmarried women should not remain all by themselves. You should not have come into this house like this, either. Did you really kick Marcipor?"

She purposefully disregards his question. "But I know you! We talk in the gardens all the time!"

"We should not be doing that. You are a young lady. Your aunt probably is searching for suitable husbands for you–"

She stares at him for a moment that lasts longer than eternity and passes in a heartbeat. Something in her eyes makes him feel small and insignificant. The feeling of guilt multiplies a tenfold as she just looks at him, looks and looks and looks with her grass-green, beautiful eyes.

"You are no better than they are!" The words break out of her, rough and laced with pain, but quiet and measured nevertheless. Still, he shrinks back like a surprised animal. "Sitting here in your pretty house, pretending to be like us just because your friend is a Brigand and you have a wolfhound! Just because you learned our culture it does not mean you are like us. You are a pretender, as well, nothing more."

"Cottia–" Marcus swallows, unable to form a coherent thought.

She glares at him. Her voice is still calm. "I thought you were different."

Dropping to her knees, she buries her face in Wolf's pelt, her thin arms tightening around the hound's neck, her fox-red hair mingling with black-grey fur. She whispers something in Wolf's ear, her voice rough, and then darts up again and away without looking back even one last time. Marcus watches her go, still unable to utter a word. His mind is blank.

The next week, different carts and a coach line up in front of Kaeso's villa. The entire morning and noon, slaves pack luggage and chests onto the carts, closely supervised by Kaeso's head slave. When afternoon sets in the small caravan is set in motion, rumpling and creaking, and the sound of the carriage horses' hooves floats past his window and into the distance until they disappear. Marcus watches them from the garden. When the carriage rolls out of sight the sensation of emptiness becomes so overwhelming he walks into the study and asks whether Uncle Aquila is up for a game of checkers.

Thankfully, he is.


	2. Light

_A/N: My heart-felt thank you for the review. I am glad you liked it, and I hope this second (and last) part will be enjoyable, as well._

* * *

 ** _Part Two (Light)_**

Looking back, Marcus barely remembers what follows Cottia's leave.

Summer passes by in a burst of warmth and sun shine, with the scent of forest and hills. Once summer awakens, it chases the grey fog away over the hills and towards the sea, and glorious days begin.

Esca trains Wolf as a hound, and together they hunt. The horses, the forest, the world passing by in a blur – it is enough to make Marcus feel like there is nothing else than the wild hunt, like he, here and now, was born to live that way. Esca laughs, loud and open, and his battle cry rings through the forests and hills. Together, they hunt: Esca, Wolf and Marcus. It is a good feeling to carry a spear again, although it is very different than carrying a sword. Esca prefers his bow. Usually, it works like this: Esca tracks the animals, and they chase it, and Marcus feels alive. They skin and gut their prey and return home in the evening light. Sassticca makes the most wonderful venison stews, and Wolf contentedly nags away at the scraps and bones. Uncle Aquila prefers the tender loins.

Or they sit in the garden, Marcus playing tug-of-war with Wolf, Esca working on a piece of driftwood with his small dagger. Wolf always knows how much strength she can use on Esca, and how much on Marcus. When she gets up to place her paws on Marcus' shoulder, he laughs and pushes her down again before she can unbalance him and he can twist his injured leg. When Esca tries to do the same, she pushes him to the ground with the enthusiasm of the young; wrestling for attention and the worn and weary strip of leather that is her favorite toy. It is like she understands, inherently, that Marcus needs time to heal.

But heal he does, slowly and steadily.

His knee still aches during cold nights and sudden changes in the weather, but the pain that had accompanied him for months slowly abates. His shoulders lift and his gait stretches as he finally is able to move without his crutches again. When Sassticcia leaves the kitchen one day and sees Marcus and Wolf playing in the garden, both of them probably limping pitifully but _oh, it is so good to run again!_ , she sits down on the stairs heavily and starts to cry. Marcus has to console her, hugging her and promising the worst is over, and that of course, he will be able to walk in the future. The day the medicus gives a look at his knee and takes his leave again without the usual checkup is the day Stephanos opens a bottle of Italian wine for dinner, and Sassticca makes a carriage full of honey cakes. Whenever Uncle Aquila takes one, she tut-tuts at him but he ignores it, a tiny smile on his lips and his eyes shining brightly.

"Your cakes are the best, Sassticca," he says and winks at her, and the old cook blushes.

"Those are for Master Marcus!" She insists nevertheless.

Marcus, watching the exchange, laughs. "I will eat as many as I manage. In the meantime, let Uncle Aquila have some, as well."

* * *

During the long winter that almost seems like a memory now in the bright sun light of summer, Uncle Aquila had not invited any guests to his home.

Now that the weather is warm and comfortable, he opens his house and his dining room for long discussions with writers and traders, for unsmiling politicians and humorous, retired soldiers.

Marcus finds that he enjoys most of the dinner parties; Uncle Aquila knows interesting people with even more interesting stories to tell. Even the Legate of the Sixth Legion, Claudius Hieronimianus, graces them with his presence one evening. Marcus only saw the man once, briefly, when he and Esca delivered the Eagle to the envoys of Rome almost half a year ago, and he is astonished to learn that Uncle Aquila and Hieronimianus served together once upon a time.

"Maybe there will be a new Ninth legion again one day," the white-haired politician says with a sigh. "It seems like the Emperor wishes to re-establish your father's legion. But you know Romans, and especially those who have served their time in Britain. Superstitious lot, the bunch of them!"

Marcus does not think that it is mere superstition that keeps the legates from building up another Ninth, but he does not say anything. There is a dream in every eagle, a promise the soldiers carry with them. A vow. A vow in form of a wooden bird-of-prey covered in a thin sheaf of gold, with strong, sturdy copper nails fastening it to the wood of the standard's pole, and most of the soldiers understand. Some do not, and never will. But an eagle that was abandoned for such a long time deserves honor and rest, not new battles. He merely shrugs, though. "I do not mind. The Ninth was a good army, and everyone knows now that its soldiers did not desert but died fighting."

 _This is good enough for me._

"Yes, they did," Hieronimianus agrees and thoughtfully munches some grapes. Imported from Rome, the fruit are small and tasteless and almost dry when they reach Britannica. Marcus heard the people along the Rhine are starting to cultivate wine, as well, at least in the parts that are hilly and, thus, sunnier and warmer than the usual climate in the North. The young wine tastes bitter but not without promise. Marcus knows, because he tried some: merchant friends of Uncle Aquila's brought it with them when they visited a few weeks ago.

"Did you hear the latest news from Rome?" Someone says into a second of silence, loud enough for anyone to shift their attention back to the room.

Marcus leans back and meets Esca's gaze over the crowd of people. They share a smile.

 _Good enough for us._

* * *

They travel to Rome before fall sets in.

Uncle Aquila insists that it is due to his trade – that he has to visit customers, negotiate new contracts and check on his storehouses – but Marcus has the feeling that it is, once again, a deliberate plot. At first, he does not want to go. The journey is long: to Londinium and across the Channel, on a boat, and then many hours of horse carriage across Germania, over the mountains and to Rome. Also, nights are getting longer already and the skies start to look grey and heavy again. When they cross the Alps too late in the season, it might even snow. But Uncle Aquila is determined to spend the winter under Rome's sun.

"It's my old bones," he says, sighing. "The warmth is better for them."

Marcus does not point out that his uncle's poor old bones would rather stay home in Britannia instead of undertaking such a lengthy journey. The man, he thinks, is simply too compassionate, too caring. Though Marcus feels like he has given his uncle no reason to feel he has to think of ways to cheer him up. He still feels like he is gasping for breath on some days, when the pain is like a steady beat in his entire body. But usually he clenches his jaw and cracks a smile and thinks that there are far worse places to be, and far worse people to be around.

Uncle Aquila would take that as a compliment, Marcus knows.

Esca's willingness to come along is only partly honest. The Brigand cannot be persuaded to stay in the North along with Marcipor, Sassticca and Wolf, but demands to accompany them. Marcus cannot imagine his best friend, who is so obviously not Roman and so proud of his own heritage, to feel at ease in the hustle, bustle and artificialness that is the capital of the Roman Empire. He cannot deny, either, that the thought of having Esca with him is a relieving one. It is not so much that he still needs help but that he aches for _familiarity_. Marcus never liked Rome much, either; he grew up in a place with golden fields of wheat, with olive groves and sun-kissed hills.

"You will not like the city," he says.

Esca looks at him, pensive. "I have seen my share of cities."

And that is what Marcus likes in his friend: the fact that he answers every question; but only after he has thought about the answers. He does not deny for the sake of denying and regards every question, every suggestion, as if it is the most important decision he will ever have to make. He will not discard Marcus' arguments immediately but ponder them, and then counter them with his own reasons.

"Rome is different," Marcus says, with an air of finality.

His friend laughs. "So are you, my friend."

"I'm sure not like _that_ ," he mutters, but he knows he has lost.

* * *

The journey is long and exhausting, and they are forced to take the longer route through the alps due to early snow. They spend weeks on the road, sleeping in a different place every night – a roadside inn, a small courier station. Gradually, the landscape shifts: from fall-golden Germania and blue Rhenus to the rocky outcrops of Bavaria, to the grey, indifferent and towering alps. Until they finally reach Rome, the eternal city. And it is warm and full, full of sun and people. Oh, of course, it has its rainy days and occasional cloudy mornings. But compared to the grey, humid landscape of Britannia, it is far more pleasant. Sometimes, Marcus wonders whether this is because of its nearness to Etruria, his place of birth, or merely because of the familiarity.

Yet the moment he sees the eternal city he already is ill with something that feels suspiciously like homesickness.

* * *

Uncle Aquila's villa in the outskirts of the city is not large but comfortable. Here, he entertains his guests, here, he sits in his study and works. There is a steady stream of people wandering in and out of the door. Marcus meets senators and philosophers, architects, scholars, politicians and traders. Sometimes he feels like he does not know his own name anymore, with all the new ones he learns. But it never is too much, and Uncle Aquila is careful when it comes to the number and kind of people he has Marcus meet. Marcus, whose father died so early and who never really felt like a son to the man his mother married again, catches a glimpse of how it must be: growing up as the heir of an important and good man.

It does not feel unpleasant.

Uncle Aquila takes him to attend a few senate sessions. They go to the Forum and listen to the public speakers, dine with important people, visit others. Uncle Aquila also takes Marcus to meet his trade partners. Intended or not; Marcus learns a lot about trade and contracts and economy, things he always thought he would never need while simply being a soldier. His uncle never says a word, but Marcus knows he is gently teaching him everything to set him up as his successor. It is not a request, not even a obligation. Just a suggestion, a soft whisper: this could be you. Marcus tries to imagine the future: him, like Uncle Aquila, living in Calleva, leading his little trade business. Meeting people; negotiating contracts; testing the waters for new goods, for the people's tastes. It is not a detestable thought. In the past, as a young soldier with dreams and hopes and ideals, he could not imagine doing anything else but serving the eagles. Until his retirement, and then he would marry and settle down. Maybe in Etruria, he thinks, and ignores the slight stab somewhere in his chest. Now that his future has come so much earlier than he expected it to come, it feels… _unreal._ One year back from his and Esca's quest to the Highlands, and still it seems like he has not yet accepted the fact that there is no going back.

His old life is over.

Esca, in Romae, seems thinner and paler. Maybe it is the white marble, the grand scale. The tall Brigand retreats into the background, so uncharacteristic for him. He still spends a lot of time with Marcus but since the latter is occupied on certain times they are not together every moment. Not like in Britannia. Esca seems awed by the city, by the scale, the light, the streets. But Wolf is not amused: too many houses, too many people. They establish a routine: Every morning, Esca takes a ride into the surrounding hills and vales, and Wolf accompanies him. Marcus watches them leave and feels a stab of envy. When they return, they are hungry as wolves (Esca laughs at the pun, and Marcus feels his face twist into a smile) and flushed from the fresh air. And Marcus tells himself, every day that tomorrow, he will go, as well. But then he watches them leave again, wistfully wishing he could find the strength to accompany them. But what always was so easy in Calleva is not as simple in Romae. And his friends understand, though with heavy hearts. In the afternoon, when Uncle Aquila locks himself in his study to work and the atmosphere of the house is heavy and still with heat and emptiness, Esca joins Marcus in the atrium, where the water in the decoratively designed fountain cools the air somewhat. Wolf greets him enthusiastically and drops down at his feet like a dead weight, and then they just sit and talk. He enjoys the time with Uncle Aquila and is very grateful for the time his uncle takes for him and the faith he puts in him. Those are good times, the hours they spend together. But the time with Esca and Wolf, chatting softly or just silently staring at the mosaics on the walls that seem to dance in the warm afternoon air, are the moments that are most precious to him.

Marcus is not sure whether he loves or detests Rome.

* * *

Ironically, the day Uncle Aquila has made plans specifically for him, Marcus is in no mood to leave the house. It is one of his worse days, with grey clouds and wind instead of sunshine and blue sky, with an almost-but-not-quite pain in his knee and a steady pressure on his temples. He is irritated and irritable and even Wolf gives up nudging his leg and whining for attention after some time. He readies himself for an outing, nevertheless, because his uncle seems so expectant. Almost jubilant, so proud of him and his supposed achievements. There is something in the air and it is not only the sweet, almost suffocating scent of night.

"Marcus Flavius Aquila, my nephew," Uncle Aquila introduces him to the white-haired man in an expensive toga. "Marcus, this is Cassius Lucius Sullus, a business associate and longtime friend of mine."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Cassius Lucius Sullus says and winks at Marcus friendly. His voice is deep and sonorous. "And do not listen to him when he says I am his friend. He treats me even worse than his actual business associates."

"There is a saying that money and friendship should not be placed into the same bowl," Uncle Aquila returns, drily.

The two men share a short glance, and Marcus can see that they are close – despite their friendly banter. Cassius is a calm and energetic man, always ready to tackle chores and difficulties, that, at least, is what Marcus learns from listening to them. He also has a similarly dry humor as his friend.

The evening progresses and it is not as bad as he has feared. The men talk about politics and military, and that is a subject Marcus is intimately familiar with despite his now more than two-year-long retirement from the troops. There is no consensus on the current progress of the senate when it comes to the situation in Britannia. Also, there have been increasing attacks from Barbarian tribes in the North of Germania and nobody is comfortable with the way the enemy is suddenly pushing forward. In fact, Marcus comes to be quite comfortable with his host as the evening progresses. Uncle Aquila and he stay far longer than is due. All the other guests have already taken their leave when Cassius clears his throat and exchanges a glance with Uncle Aquila. The latter frowns, then shrugs.

"Aquila tells me you have spent the last year recovering," Cassius says, gravely. "You seem healthy and strong now, again."

"I am much better, thank you," Marcus replies.

"How do you like Britannia?"

"I think it is an interesting island," he returns, guardedly. "The climate can be… _challenging._ But overall, I have come to like the place."

(And, the moment he says it, he knows it is true. It is... not as surprising as he would have expected it to be.)

Cassius swivels his wine in his chalice. "Do you think you will stay there in the future? Build up a life?"

"Yes," Marcus says, wondering. Suspecting…

"Your Uncle and I have talked about this topic already, and we are in agreement so far. You are still young, despite your extensive experience. You will have plans of building a future for yourself in Britannia, and I am sure your plans involve a wife and offspring at one point. I have two daughters, one is fifteen summers, one seventeen. I think a connection by marriage between our families–" He exchanges another glance with Uncle Aquila and clears his throat. "I think such a connection would be beneficial for both of us, and I would be glad to welcome you into my family."

* * *

Esca, when Marcus retells the story the next day, does not stop grinning.

"And, which one are you going to choose?"

Marcus huffs. "They are pretty, and the elder one even seems quite intelligent. But…"

But, he says, and has no idea what should follow. The girls are lovely, dark, wavy hair and golden tan, sweet lips and hands and words. Both of them are a good catch: from a wealthy family, intelligent, pretty. If Marcus really plans on following Uncle Aquila into his business, Cassius' connections will be invaluable. And yet.

 _But._

Esca shrugs, unconcerned. "If you do not wish to choose a wife now you do not do it. If…" He breaks off, looks at Marcus, strangely piercing. "If there is someone else on your mind…"

"Esca," Marcus says and forces a laugh. "You know me. Have I ever shown interest in women?"

"No," his friend says. "Not really. Well, except for Cottia, of course."

"Cottia," Marcus repeats. Suddenly remembers the fox girl: fiery red hair, sharp teeth, pointed face. _You are just like the others._ Smiles through the stab of _something_ , because he remembers the way she and Esca used to talk in the gardens. So lively, so animated. Her red hair mixing with his dark blond when they lean over to scratch Wolf's belly. Esca and Cottia always got along splendidly, she used to talk to him almost more than she talked with Marcus. The memory is so alive his breath almost catches in his throat: sunshine and afternoon shadows, and Cottia throwing the strip of leather for Wolf. Esca standing behind her and smiling, softly. Showing her how to stretch in order to throw farther. Laughing with her as she stumbles and holds on to him in order not to fall…

 _Cottia._

Marcus turns to his friend. "You have my blessing, by the way."

Esca frowns. "What do you mean?"

"If you want to marry her. I can imagine her uncle will oppose – or her aunt, rather – but I am sure Uncle Aquila has some tricks in store…"

His friend looks at him funnily. "I never thought of marrying her, Marcus."

"No? Why not?"

"She's like a sister to me."

Marcus remembers thinking the same, and wonders-

"But," Esca says after a few seconds of silence, "I can imagine you would try to get me to marry, as well, so you will not be the only one who will be ordered around by a wife…"

They laugh, the tension suddenly broken. Marcus grasps Esca's shoulder, warmly. Esca smiles back. Has Marcus been imagining things? The thought of Esca and Cottia together stings. But they never kept secrets from each other, Marcus and Esca, not in the whole time they have known each other. It was the foundation of their friendship: the whole truth, and nothing but truth. So if Esca says he only sees a sister in Cottia, that must be the truth, too.

Uncle Aquila merely shrugs when Marcus goes to talk to him two days later. "I am sure the younger one will still be unmarried next year. You can still decide."

"Cassius will not be offended if I do not choose one of them now?"

A snort. "No."

And that is that.

 _But._

* * *

They return to Britannia when spring is yet weak, a mix of grey and fog and rain and sun and color and warmth.

Marcus thinks that maybe, he has finally gotten used to the climate. Being back in Calleva is like returning to a place once beloved but long forgotten. Like a memory reawakening: the realization that this is the place he longed for when he first saw Romae. The place he now longs for when he feels homesickness well up. Somewhere along the way, between cohorts marching in the scorching summer sun, between the shouts and battle cries of the Barbarian hordes, between the agony of his first knee injury and the slow, slow recovery, between learning to walk again and learning to trust himself again, between their adventure to the Highlands and the retrieval of the Eagle, between a second knee injury and a winter spent with Wolf, Esca and Uncle Aquila, a journey to Rome and back again, somewhere along the way the green hills and silver mists of Britannia have replaced the golden sun of Etruria in his heart. They arrive on a cloudy day on which the fog streaming up from the swamps and the rivers has not yet dissipated and will not do so. The sky hangs low, cloudy and grey, and a steady drizzle has accompanied them the entire way from the harbor. But when the city walls of Calleva Atrebatum shift into view and the streets are full of farmers, soldiers and traders and when the scent of the pines still is oh-so-faint but oh-so-familiar – then, suddenly, the clouds break open. The sun shines through, golden rays and silver reflection, and the soft hills look like they are bathed in light. Uncle Aquila's house is busy with sound and voices; Stephanos is cleaning up the library, in the atrium, Marcipor is swearing at Wolf, and the scent of Sassticca's cooking and baking wafts into the afternoon air.

And Marcus' heart sings.

 _Home._

* * *

The letter arrives a few weeks later, with the usual correspondence for Uncle Aquila.

Marcus does not even realize it is for him when Marcipor presents him with the heavy, official-looking scroll. He takes it with confusion, and no small amount of trepidation, and breaks the seal. He is aware of Uncle Aquila's eyes, watching him carefully from the other side of the table, as he begins reading.

When he reaches the bottom of the scroll, he begins again at the first line.

"What is it?" Esca has long ago learned to read every single one of Marcus' moods. As has Wolf. From her place at his feet she whimpers softly, her nose stretched out towards him.

Marcus drops the scroll and blinks in shock.

"Speak up," Uncle Aquila orders. Marcus obeys.

"The Legate Claudius Hieronimianus of the Sixth Legion writes that he has brought our case before the Senate. After a long discussion, it has been decided that the Ninth Legion will not be reassembled. But for our heroic part in the retrieval of the Eagle of the Ninth, they will reward you, Esca, with a Roman citizenship. And I-" He swallowed, his tongue suddenly thick in his throat. "They are rewarding me like a cohort centurio after his complete period of servitude. They will pay me both in gold as well as in land."

Uncle Aquila takes up the scroll and shifts it close.

"You may choose," he says, continuing to read. "Either land in Etruria, or in Britannia."

His eyes, looking at Marcus over the scroll, are proud. "Congratulations, nephew."

"Roman citizenship," Esca repeats, slowly. "Does that mean…"

"They have awarded you the wooden sword," Marcus says, using an explanation the ex-gladiator would immediately understand. "They might even revoke your status as former slave. Those are great news, Esca!"

Esca stares. "And you can go home?"

"Home." Marcus tastes the word, and with it, all the memories come floating back. The soft, rolling hills of Etruria. The scent of the pine forests, the olive groves, the song of the cicadas at night. _Home._ A place he never thought he would ever return to.

A place he is not sure…

 _But._

He and Esca embrace, warmly, while Uncle Aquila beams in pride at both of them.

"I bet my old friend Claudius shed barrels of sweat fighting for this reward for you."

"So that was the reason for all the secretive writing and meeting of yours throughout winter, uncle."

"It certainly was, nephew."

"Thank you, Uncle Aquila. Thank you."

"You are welcome. Very, very welcome."

* * *

On the first sunny, warm summer day, Marcus whistles for Wolf.

She comes in a sprint, yipping in anticipation and happiness and jumping up to place her huge paws on Marcus' shoulders. Laughing, he returns her affection and then takes her at her collar. Slowly, they walk into the garden as he marvels how fast the tiny wolf hound has grown, and how much time has passed since he came here first. How grey it had seemed, right then: grey sky, grey sea, grey everything. Now, the world is beautiful, and full of light.

Marcus sits down on the same bench he sat on so many days before and throws the leather knot for the hound. He does not turn around. He knows there is nobody standing behind him. No light steps, no flash of fiery, red hair. No sign of the girl he met almost one and a half years ago.

Resigned, he drops his head.

Wolf starts, and turns her head. Next, she starts running, towards Marcus, and passes him in a flash. Marcus turns around, slowly, afraid of what he will see, and-

"I heard you calling for Wolf."

And there she is, his fox girl, looking at him with eyes as green as fern, her arms around the large hound.

"Cottia," Marcus says. "Oh Cottia."

She rises, and steps closer, her hand on Wolf's neck.

He has not seen her for more than a year. Still, inexplicably, he expected her to remain exactly the way she had been when he last saw her. But she has not stayed the way she was. She is taller than last summer. She is wearing a soft, silver-and-green veil that falls over the straight folds of her tunica. She still stands as she always did, however, in this certain way Britannia's women have. The corner of her veil that had covered her head has dropped: her once-wild, fiery hair is drawn up into a crown on top of her head. Her lips are of a soft pink, her brows dark black, and there are droplets of gold in her ears. She looks like a queen more than ever.

The sensation of loss is so overwhelming Marcus cannot breathe.

"Cottia," he says, her name feeling alien on his tongue, somehow. "You grew up."

Her expression morphs to uncertainty as he just watches her. The silence stretches out, endlessly.

"I held onto this for you," she says. Her voice is the same, but there is a note of weariness in it, now. In her outstretched hand is a small bird carved from olive tree wood, tiny and smooth from the many, many times it was touched. Marcus stares at the bird without really seeing it. He knows how it looks like, how it feels smooth underneath his fingers. The wood has darkened from years of being touched. The bird his father carved from olive wood, the last gift Marcus received from him before he left with the Ninth. The bird he gave Cottia, in this very same garden, such a long, long time ago.

"Thank you," he says as he finds his voice again, and stretches out his hand. The wood is warm from her body heat, smooth and familiar. "How was Aquae Sulis?" Just to say something, just to break the heavy silence between them. Just to get away from the green-eyed stare that seems to unsettle something deep, deep down in him: this is not his Cottia.

At his question, her face transforms.

"I _hate_ Aquae Sulis," she spits, the fire in her eyes and her sharp teeth and face suddenly overwhelmingly alive. "I hated every moment there! I wanted to stay here, and play with Wolf and Esca, and listen to your stories, but then they had to drag me off. And when we came back you were not there, and you did not even write. I did not hear anything from you, except one tiny note from your Uncle to mine saying you had travelled to Rome, and I waited and waited, but you did not come back! And now you are here and you are not even happy to see me! And _I_ am not glad you are back, either!"

"You little vixen!"

Marcus catches her wrists as she turns to run away and carefully tugs her around so she has to look at him, and laughter bubbles up in his chest.

"But of course I am glad to see you, Cottia. I really am."

His laugh makes her start and peer up into his face. "Yes," she says, surprised. "Now it is you again. Why was it not you just now?"

"I did not recognize you," he says, strangely dizzy. "You grew up, Cottia."

"Oh." She is flustered, as well.

For a while, they just stand there while the evening shifted to night. Behind them, in the branches of the wild peach tree, a blackbird begins to sing.

Then, Cottia asks: "How is Esca? Wolf is fine, I can see that."

Marcus is startled by the laugh that falls out of his mouth. "He is well. He has been granted Roman citizenship. This even negates his carved ear. He is a free man now."

"That is great news!" She smiles, then sobers again.

The song of the blackbirds is caught by the wind. The single notes cascade with the wind until the small bird lifts off, soaring towards the crystal-clear, blue sky. Marcus shields his eyes from the sun to follow its dance, and whistles a repetition of its tune. The blackbird sings back. And then, a cloud covers the sun and the sunlit world falls back into shadows.

When Marcus looks back at Cottia, the same shadow seems to have fallen onto her face as well.

"What are you going to do now, Marcus?" She asks. Her voice is strangely tiny.

"Now?"

"Now. Since your knee is better now. You don't limp as badly as the last time I saw you. Will you go back to the legion?"

"Oh, no," Marcus answers. "I might be helpful in a small skirmish. But I cannot lead my cohort on daily marches of twenty miles from Portus Itius to Rome, and I would not be of any use on the parade ground anymore."

"Parades," Cottia says, and her tone implies her feelings towards such events very clearly. Marcus just wants to begin explaining how parades are of military importance to every legion, but she already continues. "If you are not going back to the troops, what are you going to do then?"

And, as it is, that is a question Marcus has been asking himself all spring already. He realizes it now: he is a man without a future at hand. There are many possible answers to her question, now, and there are many more impossible ones. But there is only one truth, and she deserves to hear it.

"I – I do not know."

"You could go back home," Cottia says, slowly. And then, as the implications of her thought sink in, her eyes go wide with fear. "You will go back to Rome again and you will take Esca and Wolf with you, and this time, you will not come back!"

"I really do not know, Cottia, I have not the slightest idea. And I do not think that I will ever return to Rome."

But she does not seem to hear him.

"Take me with you, Marcus!" Her voice is a plea, and the despair in her face is heartbreaking. "They are going to build a wall around Calleva, a real one, and you cannot leave me in this cage! You cannot! Oh, Marcus, please let me go with you!"

"Even if I go back to Rome?" Marcus asks, remembering how much she always hated everything Roman.

Cottia takes a step forward, towards him, and stops again. "Yes. Even to Rome." Her hands make an aimless gesture, like she is trying to reach out and stops herself in the last second. "I do not care where, as long as I am with you."

Two different waves of emotion roll over Marcus, the first one so closely followed by the second that is impossible to distinguish between them. The first one is the happiness of gaining something precious, and the second one the grief and fear of losing it again.

"The legate granted me a small retirement income and land," he says, hesitantly. "I always thought that I would build up a farm in Etruria, where I was born. But I have come to love this country. I do not have much, and I can only afford a small farm on this island. I could ask for some land in The Downs. They have thyme for bees and good cattle ground, and maybe a Southern hillside for wine. Esca and I already talked about it. We do not want to own slaves, but we could employ free workers. It would be an experiment. And it would be very hard in the beginning, very hard. Uncle Aquila says we can always come to him for help, but I refuse to ask him as long as we have not had at least three poor harvests."

He does not dare to look up at her, so he rambles on.

"Uncle Aquila snorted and grumbled like the bear he is, and said I was becoming as stubborn as my father, but really. He has done so much for us and I love him dearly. But I want to build this future with my own hands, as long as it is possible. And it will not be easy but a lot of work."

Finally, he dares to meet her eyes.

"Do you really want this, Cottia my love?"

At first, there is no sign of an reaction on her face. But then, her eyes start to shine as his words sink in, and Marcus watches her face become radiant. It makes his breath catch. Cottia grabs her cloak and wraps it around her in a gesture that somehow implies _let us go, right now,_ and takes another step towards him.

"I do," she says, her eyes as green as fern. In the last sun rays, her hair sparks like fire.

Marcus stretches out his hand and she puts hers into his without any hesitation.

From the house, Esca's whistling floats through the garden. Wolf whines and puts her heavy head on Marcus's knee, and he just sits there, looking up at Cottia and feeling the plans rise up in his heart. He might have no foreseeable future. But together, they will build one.

In the shadows, the blackbird's song rises towards the sky, and Marcus finally has come home.


End file.
